


Have a Hail Christmas...

by ineswrites



Series: ...And a Hydra New Year! [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Party, Christmas Special, First Kiss, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mistletoe, if it's tradition it's ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 06:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13117548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: This is going to be the worst work Christmas party yet.





	Have a Hail Christmas...

 

This is going to be the worst work Christmas party yet.

Brock scowls at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Spending time with a crowd of people he’s not too fond of during his free time really helps him feel the Christmas spirit. He can think of at least ten other things he could be doing instead, complete with watching the snow fall and driving aimlessly, listening to awful Christmas songs covers. It doesn’t help the place they chose for the party is an hour ride from his home with all the traffic. To make matters worse, Jack must leave early because he has a plane at 3 AM so he can be home in the morning. Brock isn’t looking forward to making sure STRIKE doesn’t get too drunk on his own. They don’t want the repeat of the 2009 Incident where drunk Westfahl started hailing Hydra in the middle of the room. Good thing everybody brushed it off as “just a Westfahl thing” or Brock would be in jail right now. As it is, Westfahl has conveniently gone on a mission to Sao Paulo along with Foxtrot, so it’s one person less to worry about. Foxtrot’s leader, Martin, wasn’t too happy about it. Stupid motherfucker. Westfahl is what he is, but he’s still a better soldier than any of these poor schmucks on his stupid team. You don’t get on Alpha for pretty eyes.

Brock shakes his head. No point in getting pissed at Martin again when he’s already angry enough. He exits the car and straightens his parka, feeling the sleeves of his jacket squeeze his biceps. It’s such a bullshit he has to dress up to this stupid party. His black suit’s too tight and uncomfortable, probably because he bought it five years ago and he’s put on some muscle weight since then. He should buy a new one but it feels like such a waste of money.

He crosses the sidewalk covered in a thin layer of fresh snow glinting in the light of the street lamps, and enters the restaurant. A nice lady greets him and motions towards the stairs. He throws a longing look at the bar as he passes by and climbs up the stairs, faint music reaching his ears.

He’s a little late, and the room is already crowded. The lightning is dim, and there’s an actual fireplace lit up, which he must admit is pretty nice. He takes off his parka and hangs it on an overwhelmed coat rack. He looks around until he spots Jack, standing alone a little to the side with a glass of white wine in hand, dressed in a silver gray button-up and black suit pants. _He_ doesn’t have to dress up if he’s only gonna stay for an hour.

Brock approaches him, unwittingly brushing off his jacket. Jack lights up at the sight of him, like he’s been only waiting for him. Which he probably has.

“Merry Christmas,” Jack says with a little smug smile like it’s a joke.

Brock rolls his eyes. Jack knows Brock isn’t too keen on Christmas and he likes to bring it up because he’s an asshole like that.

“Whatever. You better bring me them blueberry muffins your sister always bakes for me, or it’s the end of our friendship.”

Jackass always eats most of them before he even lands back in Washington, like he doesn’t spend full four days stuffing his mouth with them.

“You could just accept the invitation for once. Then you’d have as many muffins as you wanted.”

Brock shrugs. It’s nice of Jack’s family they keep inviting him every year, but… Well, it’s _Jack’s_ family. Not his. And they only do that because they know Brock always spends Christmas on his couch in front of the TV with beer and cold pizza leftovers. They don’t really _want_ him there.

And it would be a little gay.

He tries to come up with a smart retort when he hears Barton yelling.

“Hey! Hey, Rumlow!”

He turns his head to where Barton and Romanoff are standing at a long buffet table. Barton’s dressed up in the same purple suit with a colorful tie that makes Brock’s eyes cross he wears every year. His cheeks are flushed and judging by the shot glass he’s holding, he’s been doing vodka shots with Romanoff like he doesn’t know any better. Brock rolls his eyes because Barton _doesn’t_ know any better.

“What?” he yells back.

“You two should kiss!”

“Are you outta yer mind?!” he snaps. “Rollins, did you hear this shit?”

He’s about to roll up his sleeves and stride towards the buffet table when Barton raises his arm to point at something above their heads.

“Mistletoe!”

Brock feels blood drain from his face as he and Jack look up and see a single mistletoe branch decorated with a red bow.

“It’s tradition,” Jack mumbles.

Brock’s throat goes dry. “Yeah…”

He’s still shocked when Jack leans down and catches his lips with his. Jack’s mouth is soft and warm and tastes of dry wine. Jack’s big hand covers his jaw and tilts his face so he can deepen the kiss. The whole experience feels surreal, like it’s happening on another plane of existence and not even to Brock.

Then the cheers and laughs start and they bring Brock back to Earth. Without looking--when did he close his eyes exactly?--he holds up his middle finger towards where he thinks Barton’s standing and grabs Jack by the collar of his button-up with his other hand to pull him closer. Maybe he’s showing off a little, but he never pretended to dislike attention.

They break apart and Jack looks at him wide-eyed with a soft smile tugging at his lips, like he doesn’t quite believe what just happened. Brock’s lips split in a predatory grin and he slaps Jack’s ass.

“Merry Christmas.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> What he said. Merry Christmas.


End file.
